The gentle clink and clatter of windchimes carries its way in the breeze in a quiet rural area. Feral fluffies finding themselves lost in the countryside find themselves drawn to the soft light in the windows of an old shack - the warmth of a fire and the smoke of a chimney - a rare sign of human habitation that could soothe starving tummies and warm shivering foals. The visitors hum and sing along to the unseen music, happy mummah songs and tone-deaf foal babbling occupying their little minds during the journey.
A rap at the door. The face of an old man from the orange gloom. Sad. Worn down. A foal raised in offering: Please show us mercy. This young one has so much potential. Feed us. Love us.
The old man does not know how to keep them away. He is just too tired to chase, to shout, to make a message any clearer than the one he has delivered for years on end.
He takes the foal.
He closes the door.
A few moments later, he returns. There is a bundle in his hand, wrapped in leather of unknown origin. The mummah is confused, her babbeh is scared, the foal is… where is the foal?
A wooden ladder. Arthritic bones wailing in silent agony as the man ascends, reaches for a branch, opens the bundle. A small cord is looped, then released.
Sweet little notes play and the foal joins the chorus.
He struggles and kicks, a noose tight around his neck. Not enough to break. Not enough to fully choke. Just enough to allow it to struggle. Enough so that it wiggles and shakes and jingles and tinkles.
There’s shouting, begging from the other two. The man simply looks at them with his sad eyes. He points up to the branches of the other withered, dead trees. Skeletal, desiccated remains sway in the breeze and contribute to a song they did not know they would be singing.
The fluffies see. The fluffies do not comprehend. The man steps down the path, takes one last look, closes the door. The warm glow goes out.
They never saw him leave. Eyes transfixed on the babbeh, they beg and shout and cry. They’ll be there until he stops, til their throats burn and their eyes are too tired to cry, all the while serenaded by their little ones’ last lease on life.
When the body decomposes and falls like a rotten apple, its bones will become the foundation for the next while the remains play on.
Years pass, and the valley resonates with gentle song.
